


Echoes

by groundyonly



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:24:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundyonly/pseuds/groundyonly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once again, Lizzie asks Red a question that forces him to think about things he prefers to leave in the past. NOT father/daughter but I understand why you could read it that way!<br/>One-shot, but to be followed up this time with a full-length "episode" (I hope!). Please do tell me what you think... I do need to know! I own nothing, of course... nothing but imagination, and curiosity!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes

The early morning light filtered in through the blinds and striped him with light, but still Raymond Reddington did not move. Sitting in the middle of the sofa, fully dressed in suit pants, dress shirt, vest and a tie, he stared vacantly ahead, watching the scenes play out in his head, hearing the voices. Feeling, for the first time in years.

“Did you bring me anything?”

Lizzie had asked him the question last night, when he had reluctantly caved in to a weakness and gone to her house, once he knew her husband Tom had gone. He should never have gone there, he knew. Not now, not when she was so… attached to him, somehow. He needed to stay as detached and remote as possible. Because if he didn’t, he knew he might be drawn in by her humanity, by her vulnerability, and if he was, then… _this_ could happen.

 _This_ could happen. And it did. 

“Did you bring me anything?” He had reacted to her innocently spoken and playful words at first with a laugh. But now, hours later, in the dark of the night, in the solitude of his residence (he couldn’t call it home; there was no “home” for him now), in the fullness of his thoughts, those words came back to haunt him.

He had been taking off his jacket when the echo first hit him. He tried to ignore it by heading into the kitchen and whipping up an omelette the way he had learned in France, in a cast iron pan and complete with tarragon leaves, chopped chervil, and Gruyère cheese. He ate it mechanically but didn’t taste it, washing it down with a flavorless glass of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. When the words came back again, he took a shower, the water so hot he could barely stand under it. But stand he had done, for a long time, trying to wash away the memory not just of that night, but of every minute of the last three weeks. Betrayed… _betrayed_. Was that how they had felt when he left so many years ago? 

He jumped out of shower and grabbed the towel, roughly dried himself off, and threw the towel on the floor, then meticulously dressed in a fresh suit and left the room. In the living room, he poured himself a scotch and downed it in one hit, then poured another and took a slower sip. He turned to go sit down, then turned back and picked up the bottle to take with him.

He put the bottle and the glass on the coffee table, then randomly chose a book from the many shelves around the room and sat down on the sofa. He ran his hands meticulously over the binding and the outside edge of the pages, consciously focusing on the engraved cover, on the smoothness of the paper, on the smell of the old but well-kept book. He opened it, looked at the dedication: _To my wife, Helen, and my children, Thomas and PJ. I couldn’t live without you. KR._ Red let out a short huff of derision: _Weakling._ Then her question echoed again in his mind. He shook his head and mocked himself, _And you’re living so well, Red._

He turned to the first chapter, picked up his glass, and sat back, willing himself to get involved in the story. He realized he had not actually absorbed the title of the book, and looked back to see, then focused on the page before him. Three pages later he was still trying, frowning as he continued, taking another sip of his scotch, forcing himself to want to care.

At page ten, and no more knowledgeable about the contents of the book than he was when he started, he slammed the book shut and tossed the remaining contents of the glass down his throat. He grimaced, tossed the book on the coffee table, and poured himself another two fingers of scotch. Then, holding the glass but not drinking, he had leaned back and succumbed to the images and voices he had almost managed to eradicate from his memory. Almost. Until he had visited Lizzie, and she had asked that question that he had been asked so many times, by someone who was so very dear to him that his heart had actually hurt when he had to be away from her. That question, the one inextricably linked in his mind to that tiny, hopeful voice, that contagious smile that greeted him whenever he got home, and those immense, bottomless blue eyes that placed so much hope and trust in him as he scooped her up in his arms and lifted her onto his shoulders, or carried her up the stairs, limp with imminent sleep, to dream of more adventures tomorrow….

_Did you bring me anything?_

_Yes…. Heartache._

The morning light reflected off the now-empty scotch bottle and bathed the abandoned book in pale yellow. Still, Red sat, unmoving, still staring ahead, empty glass in hand, wishing he had never gone to Lizzie’s last night, wishing that he still had Newton standing beside him to take the glass away and lead him to bed where he could fall into a dreamless void for a few days, a few hours, a few minutes. The pain was unbearable, but he knew he had no choice but to carry on. 

Time for another distraction. Forcing the memories back into the dark box in the corner of his mind, Red pulled away from the back of the sofa, quietly put the glass back on the table, and stood up. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed.

“Lizzie, get your passport. The next Blacklister is in Australia.”


End file.
